


Wife Swap

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bisexuality, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1271254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ling fan, edwin, win fan, edling smut.] Twice a year, the Yao and the Rockbell-Elrics gather in Resembool for something like a vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wife Swap

**Author's Note:**

> So FalconKnightCordelia and I were kicking around this dumb idea. And then she challenged me, as a cishet dude, to write some gay smut. Well, I didn't quite write the gay smut, but I'm starting on it. Consider this the test trial for the inevitable OT4ever. CORDELIA HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU PIECE OF SHIT.
> 
> Oh, Lan Fan's a transwoman. I'm not sure if that shows up in the fic proper, but y'know, the more I can spread my headcanons, the better.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Enjoy!

The Emperor and his faithful vassal are unable to leave Xijing very frequently, and their departures tend to stir international incidents. The Pantheress of Rush Valley and her faithful husband are similarly unable to quit their demanding jobs in Rush Valley long enough to return to the Resembool, and _their_ departures tend to stir panicked calls from Central concerning the current location of the former Fullmetal Alchemist.

But the house is still standing on the hill, watching over the path its heavy panes, when a bright red parasol festooned with grotesque spikes meanders its way up to the entrance. Beneath the parasol fight two figures with long blonde hair. Fight, because the yelling match reaches even the house, which seems to visibly sag from disappointment.

“You’re holding it too high,” snaps Winry.

Ed snorts and lifts the parasol still higher. “Well _excuuuse_ me if I’m not so short that I can just fuckin’ waltz around with a parasol covering my eyes.”

Rolling her eyes so hard she fears she might break her own skull Winry makes a grab for the handle. Ed spins around to avoid her, but the wind catches the curved fabric and suddenly he’s stumbling from the force of the propelled parasol. She snags the handle in the confusion. With a triumphant yelp Winry clutches the parasol to her person. “Arrogant dumbass. You should know better than to rub it in to short people.”

“ _You’re_ the dumbass,” Ed mumbles. He runs his fingers through his messy ponytail in a manner that somehow manages to look and sound offended; she chuckles. “I did my time as a shortie. No, don’t fuckin’ remind me.”

“When we have kids, remind _me_ to start a swear jar.” _Hmph_ ing with an air of mimicked superiority, Winry hurries forward, parasol on her shoulder. Ed bars the sun with a raised arm. “So fucking move it, will you?”

“Like that’s not hypocritical of you at all, huh,” he butts in dryly, but by now he’s arrived at the step. “Well, I don’t see anything exploding, and I don’t _smell_ smoke, so I guess Ling’n Lan Fan haven’t arrived yet.”

Winry jams the key into the lock, huffs in frustration when the damn thing doesn’t go in on the first try, flips it one-eighty, jams it in a second time, and nearly _growls_ at the repeated idiocy of the lock.

“Uh, I think it’s unlocked,” says Ed, rather unhelpfully, and Winry kicks the door in.

It swings opens as easily as you please. Winry and Ed slowly turn their heads to glare at the empty doorway with the exact same expression on both of their faces.

“Are you sure you two aren’t secretly twins?”

With a yelp Ed jumps up to spin around, one hand automatically sweeping his nonexistent automail plating for a blade, but Winry catches him, successfully turning a heroic gesture into a husband cowering in his wife’s arms. “Hell, Lan Fan, where’d you even _come_ from?!” he snarls.

Hovering on the perch of the steps behind them, Lan Fan tilts her head innocently to side, her hair just brushing against her shoulder. Ed can see the ghost of a smile dance over her lips before she can stamp it out entirely. “Ling’s upstairs.”

Winry snickers; Ed exhales. “Getting right fuckin’ down to business, huh. Pragmatic as always, Lan Fan.”

“I know what I’m here for.” She’s kidding. What she _means_ —as far as Ed knows—is that it’s been a tiring journey and she and Ling would very much be interested in relaxing in as mindless a manner as possible prior to the proper kick-off of their semiannual vacation.

Ed expects cuddling. Maybe kissing. He’s partially wrong on both counts: Ling has wriggled under a veritable mountain of blankets and is asleep by the time the trio struggles the perpetually broken parasol up the stairs. That, or he’s fainted from that disorder of his. Lan Fan claims that it’s genetic to many in the imperial family, but Ed doesn’t recall Ling ever fainting during their months wintering over (of course, as Winry pointed out, as a homunculus, Ling wouldn’t have suffered from any illnesses whatsoever, genetic or not).

Winry wrinkles her nose. “Don’t really get how Ling can _survive_ under _that_ heat-trap in the middle of summer.”

“He’s a heatsink,” Lan Fan confirms as she turns around to allow Ed and Winry to discreetly change into their nightclothes. “He also kicks.”

Ed rubs at a former bruise on his shin. “I’m aware.” Lan Fan chokes back a snicker.

While Ed scrunches himself over to slip into the pyjamas he grapples from his suitcase, the parasol shoved into a corner of the room and forgotten, Winry shamelessly tosses her travelling clothes on the ground, stretching and muttering about how good it feels to have the open air on her skin, and throws on a white nightgown with the accuracy of a blind man flicking toothpicks at a miniscule target five hundred metres away. He hears her dive onto the mattress. “My _God_ is it _incredible_ to be back! Lan Fan, c’mere.”

Lifting a blanket on Ling’s left, Ed fits himself carefully into the bed onto his back; Ling’s head lolls onto his shoulder. His thigh twitches against Ed’s, and his slender fingers brush against the rise of Ed’s pyjama bottoms. In his _sleep_ , Ed tells himself harshly. Set on thoroughly ignoring the steady throb already present in his pants— _damn you, Ling_ —Ed snuggles down into the blankets and lowers his eyelids.

“Go to bed already, asshole,” he mutters under his breath. Ling’s exhalations diffuse warmth across the slope of his neck.

 

In Ed’s dreams ghostly fingers run over the tautness at the crux of his pyjama bottoms, the material fortunately loose enough that it does not compress painfully around him, but still tight enough that he can _feel_ the fabric bunching around the length of his erection. The fingers knead just below the head, at the sensitive dip between tip and body, prior to stroking steadily downwards, working the shaft in concentric circles ever increasing in speed. Nails pinch him at the base.

His eyes flick open.

Above him: the dark ceiling. To his right: Ling’s familiar breath. Around his neck: the sensations of his long hair tickling his throat and collarbone. When he awakens he senses the fingers, now very tangible and also toying with his waistband.

He hear Ling giggle. Arching an eyebrow, Ed angles his neck to face him, and in that moment Ling captures his lower lip between his teeth. Bites down, just hard enough for a jolt of pleasure-pain to zing through Ed’s frame and directly into his groin. He groans; Ling whispers something either in muffled Amestrisian or in cheeky Xingese.

“I can’t understand anything you’re saying, you glutton.”

Ling grins cheerfully. “Technically, I’m greedy, not gluttonous.” He closes that damned hand of his over Ed’s erection, and despite the pants, Ed feels his back arch completely without his approval. When he lands with a soft _tthh_ onto the sheets again, Ling is trembling with the effort of not breaking down in laughter. Ed scowls, and a hint of a chuckle escapes the boundary of Ling’s mouth. He snaps his jaw shut. “May I?” he whispers.

Ed swallows. Six months. It’s felt more like ten years. “Y-yeah.”

He knows the shape and length of Ling’s hands, knows the patterns of callouses on his palms, knows the warm gentleness with which Ling slowly traces the seam between hip and abdomen down to tangle his fingers in Ed’s pubic hair. Ling pulls up, carefully. Beads of pain pepper Ed’s vision in sparks of white, pain that ebbs immediately when Ling circumscribes the base of Ed’s erection again. Only now it’s not fabric on flesh but _skin on skin and he could murder Ling and Winry both for thinking up of this stupid swapping thing but oh God_ —

“I brought my toys,” Ling murmurs. “They’re down in the kitchen with my other stuff, but we can break them out tomorrow. Hm? How would you like to be stretched so tight you’re worried you’ll split open?”

Ed would like to survive. But said _survival_ may well preclude the aforementioned toys.“Ah-h, well—” Judging by the light of the moon, morning won’t come—Ling would have giggled had Ed said that out loud—anytime soon. If he still possessed alchemy, he’d try forcing some light into the shitty horizon.

Wait. No. Scratch that.

Last time someone tried to transmute the sun, the country at large nearly died.

Never mind.

“We’ll get them out tomorrow,” Ling is murmuring not quite into the shell of his ear, “and I even brought that special lube you like.” Ed can _feel_ the curve of Ling’s smile against his neck as Ling slides all of himself downwards. Trailing kisses in the hollow of Ed’s throat, on his collarbone, over his chest—Ed wonders when the hell Ling unbuttoned his nightshirt before realising that he’s going at it with his _teeth_ , which is ridiculously hot in the strangest of ways—all while his other hand massages and caresses and strokes Ed until he lifts his own hands to Ling’s shoulders.

“Let me.”

Ling grins into Ed’s stomach, just above where the prickly softness of golden fuzz begins at his navel. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

“Maybe if you’d hold still for less than a _second_ , I could get these off.”

“Hhhhnghh—it’s not my fault if your hands are _kind of_ almost at my th— _nnnhn_ —ighs; you know I’m sensitive there and— _fuck_ —”

“I’m trying to do so.” Lan Fan stares at her, unimpressed, from her current position: face between Winry’s knees, with the caps squeezing painfully at her head on either temple, and index fingers hooked into the band of Winry’s panties. Lan Fan senses lace under her fingertips, tickling the creases of her palms, and she considers the colour: blue? Red? Green? The frilly yellow ones she may or may not have _accidentally_ torn for their ugly design? The particularly delicious black ones that—ah, wait, she stole those last night.

Back in Xing, in her bedroll, for the nights when Ling simply wants to curl up with her belly as his pillow and she can’t get herself off otherwise.

Perhaps Winry has purchased new ones. The thought curls her toes; digging her knees further into the mattress, Lan Fan steadily inches her lover’s panties off centimetre by centimetre. “Twice a year isn’t enough.”

Winry gasps for breath as Lan Fan’s palms caress the soft, short hairs sprinkling her upper thighs. They curl over between the seam and thin to a downy fluff at the knee, below which the skin feels smooth as silk and pale as milk for shaving. Still, in the more difficult to reach backsides of her calves, Lan Fan runs over stubble. Pauses. Works her hands back up and runs them over the stubble a second time, and a third. Winry shivers with each pass: Her knees squeeze together, and her fingers claw into the blankets that wrinkle into deep crevasses from the pressure of her fingers.

“My automail isn’t too cold, is it?”

“You think I give a flying— _ohnngh_ —fuck ab-bout your automail?” Winry’s panting, and Lan Fan hasn’t even gotten started. She should, however. And soon. At this distance she can smell the faint sweetness of Winry’s arousal. Her wetness. Her readiness.

Leaning back and biting her tongue to keep from moaning herself, Lan Fan presses her thumbs into the soles of Winry’s feet. Peels the panties over her toes. Winry giggles, the arousing evidently giving way to tickling. But then again Winry’s laugh could sing the stars into shining.

Lan Fan arches an eyebrow. “Yellow today?” Despite the darkness Winry’s blush is more than visible across her otherwise pale face. But not the frilly yellow that Lan Fan so disliked in her grip. Instead the panties—marked at the edges with what appears, or appears to _appear_ to be, a design of tiny flitting birds swooping through the saffron skies—remind her of the beloved black lace she stole.

“It’s your favourite colour,” Winry mumbles.

Automail palm flat between Winry’s thighs, Lan Fan lurches forward unsteadily. Balances herself on the one hand. Slides her other along the inner curve of Winry’s thigh to the junction between torso and hip, where a slick line of sweat has beaded to wet the tip of her nail like a fated promise of things to come. And _women_ to come.

She rolls her shoulders forward. Winry says something that Lan Fan misses from the blankets and thighs around her ears. Gently she nudges Winry’s thighs apart and her lover responds with the most adorable series of squeals and eager demands that Lan Fan has heard in her life.

She says so.

Winry blushes harder. Then Lan Fan senses the pressure of Winry’s firm knuckles on the back of her head. Her lover pushes her forward till Lan Fan is close enough to the apex of Winry’s thighs to feel the heat radiating from her sex.

Lan Fan wets her lips. Parts them. Uncurls her tongue and laps at _Winry_ ’s lips, the ones between her hips, outlining the labia as deliberately slowly as possible, to which Winry responds by shuddering and thrusting her hips downwards. Closing her eyes to brace against the sudden influence of fluid on her face, Lan Fan unfolds her tongue to its broadest width. She licks upwards before coiling up into a tight spiral to worm between her inner lips and tongue at Winry’s entrance.

Winry swallows a scream.

When Lan Fan spreads her tongue flat against Winry’s inner folds she can feel her lover’s heartbeat against the tender underside, _beat-beat-beat_ ing in time to Lan Fan’s own. Slipping her tongue upwards in search of the golden sweet-spot that would make Winry jolt, that would force the scream at last from her lover’s lips, Lan Fan feels the shiver ripple through the thighs compressing her neck and shoulders.

“There you are,” she hisses as she takes Winry’s clit into her mouth, as she sucks—suckles—as she swirls her tongue in an up-and-down pattern mixed with waves of flat throbs to keep Winry at a plateau for as long as she could, a constant timer running in her mind, not in terms of seconds but in terms of Winry’s heartbeats, bouncing and pulsating and soaring against Lan Fan’s in a way that keeps her tongue shifting as if she could not stop if she were forcibly dragged from Winry’s lap.

God, she loves Winry too much for that. And Ling. And Ed.

The swap—never quite knowing where she’ll end up—but always knowing that she’ll be in the arms of someone she loves—is the most incredible idea any of them have ever had.

Except, perhaps, for all four of them going at it at once. Which they’ll surely fit in once or twenty times over the course of the fortnight.

 

Without really agreeing on it Ling and Lan Fan know another: They read the other’s partner’s _chi_ and time their ministrations as the unfurlings of _chi_ in great waves of ecstasy and joy and the delicious sweetness of love, tinged with that tell-tale taste as of peach juice trickling down one’s chin in the midst of summer’s heat.

When the Rockbell-Elrics come they come not quite together but close enough that they, somehow sensing it no matter the lack of _chi_ -reading, grab for one another’s hands as they arch and jerk and shudder through their eye-glazing climaxes together. Lan Fan raises her head, mouth drenched like the muzzle of the victorious lioness after the hunt, and Ling winks at her. She lifts a hand; he curls his fingers into the valleys between hers.

As Winry and Ed come down from their highs, Lan Fan and Ling have encircled the two between their bodies. “Move over,” Lan Fan says to Winry, not unkindly, and Winry scoots; Ed shoves Ling aside only to be shoved aside in turn by Lan Fan. Somehow the four form some sort of spiral, some sort of circle, Lan Fan resting on Winry’s stomach, Ling on Lan Fan’s, Ed on Ling’s, Winry’s on Ed’s, an endless cycle of warmth and cuddling and that curious thing called love.

 

(Winry’s making apple pies in the morning. Ling is helping. Lan Fan and Ed are also helping, mostly by keeping out of the competent chefs’ hair until breakfast is done. In the meantime, perhaps, they could enjoy themselves in the golden field spilling over behind the house. At least until their combined other half could join them.)


End file.
